


A Well-Established Danger Kink

by Eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 10:33:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John Watson sets his cap for Mycroft Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Well-Established Danger Kink

***

“You’re a twat,” John spat, slamming the door behind him.

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft said icily, turning from his desk. The office was dimly lit, but John could see clearly the disdain etched in Mycroft’s features. “Shouldn’t you be delighting over my brother’s triumphant return from the dead?”

“You could have told me!” John said, stomping forward. Mycroft raised his chin and took two steps closer to meet him; mistake on his part. John was in mood for his intimidation shit. He grabbed Mycroft by the arm and almost threw him down to sit in the guest’s chair.

The chair almost overbalanced and Mycroft blinked, grabbing at the arms to steady it. John leaned close, putting his own hands on Mycroft’s wrists, trapping him. “I don’t expect better from Sherlock; of course he would fake his death and go gallivanting about the globe without anyone to watch his back!” he snarled, inches from Mycroft’s face. “You’re supposed to be the responsible one!”

Mycroft sniffed. “Well. No one ever mistook you for the bright one.”

“You’re infuriating,” John said, his voice dropping low. Mycroft stared at him, face tilted up because John was looming over him, and the temptation of that smugly superior disdain, that mouth opening again to remonstrate, was too much. John kissed him, smothering whatever insults he meant to spew, pushing his head back in the only surrender he’d ever get from Mycroft Holmes.

When he drew back, releasing Mycroft’s wrists, Mycroft’s eyes were wide and sharp, searching for answers that John wasn’t entirely sure he had. John took a moment to catch his breath before asking hoarsely, “When did I fail your test?”

No insults or pretenses this time. Mycroft lifted his chin and said simply, “When I told you Ms. Adler was dead.”

“She isn’t, is she?” John shook his head, not waiting for the confirmation. “Another thing I’ll have to talk to Sherlock about.”

“You might want to avoid mentioning the events surrounding your deduction,” Mycroft said acidly, and when John’s gaze fell again on his mouth, glared so coldly that the room seemed to drop a degree or two in temperature.

“No, I don’t think I do,” John said, and met that glare squarely.

***

One of the more amusing traits the Holmes brothers shared was to treat extreme emotion like an outlier in data about a person’s behavior. When Mycroft next visited 221B, he seemed not to have remembered John’s outburst at all.

It was probably what passed for forgiveness in the Holmes household, John thought, getting up to pour him a cup of tea. 

“There’s been some talk of CAM again in certain circles,” Mycroft said, sitting back and staring hard at Sherlock. “Are you looking for a challenge?”

“Gossip mongers are hardly a challenge,” Sherlock snorted, not looking up from his microscope. John brought the cup and saucer to Mycroft silently, steadying it with both hands.

“You might think differently if you were to investigate,” Mycroft said. “Thank you, John,” he added, taking the cup. John took the opportunity to extend his fingers of his left hand and draw them along Mycroft’s retreating hand, blinking innocently at Mycroft’s quick, wide-eyed glance.

“If I said I would think about it, would you go?” Sherlock demanded. John drifted over to the window, outwardly nonchalant. Inwardly, he was annoyed at this breach of their new protocol: Mycroft typically wasn’t invited to leave until after tea nowadays.

But then, he hadn’t exactly been subtle. Mycroft stood, leaving the cup balanced perfectly on the arm of his chair. “Since you’re so busy, I may as well.”

“I’ll see you out,” John said mildly. “I’m meeting Greg and the others down at the pub.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Mycroft said shortly even as John swung his jacket over his shoulder.

“Someone has to be polite around here,” John said, gesturing for Mycroft to go first. He did, after exchanging one last, indecipherable look with Sherlock. “See you later, Sherlock.”

John was quiet until they made it to the door. “Mycroft, look. Let me apologise.”

“Apologise?” Mycroft repeated, finally looking at him.

“Yes, apologise. For last week.” The thing about Mycroft was that he had trained himself to respond politely to politeness, and possibly to outright rudeness as well, considering the people he had to manage. So when John held out his hand to shake, Mycroft hesitated only a moment before taking it.

And John waited only until his grip was firm to switch his own, bringing Mycroft’s hand up to brush his lips over the man’s knuckles.

***

“So you want us to start keeping a closer eye on the corpses that turn up in the river,” Greg said, staring at John like he’d grown another head. “Yeah, all right, I mean, anything for a friend.”

“I think it makes sense,” Sally volunteered, taking a contemplative sip of her beer. “You have a well-established danger kink--”

“Sally!” Anderson protested.

“--and I can’t think of anyone more dangerous than Mycroft Holmes,” Sally finished, and nodded to John. “Best of luck.”

“Thanks,” John said wryly.

“You’re practically a Holmes already, living with Sherlock; why not marry his brother and take the name?”

“Sally, shut up!” Anderson said, squeezing his eyes shut.

“No one said anything about marrying,” John said, and protested loudly as Sally burst into laughter and Greg’s and Anderson’s expressions morphed into twin looks of horror. “I’m not--don’t even start! I haven’t asked the man out yet, and you don’t think I’ll survive that part!”

“I don’t think I’m surviving this part,” Anderson said firmly, and stood up. “I’m going to the loo, and when I get back, the subject better have been changed. Christ.”

As he stomped off, Dimmock finally showed up, sidling through the crowd to nudge John’s shoulder. “Hey, where’s Stanley off to? And why is Sally choking?”

***

John was reading the paper the next morning when Sherlock confronted him--well, more accurately, when Sherlock sat down in his chair and stared until John could no longer concentrate.

“Yes?” he asked, peering over the top of the paper.

“Why are you doing this?” Sherlock demanded, and John sighed, putting the paper down.

“Because I want to?” he tried.

“You’re not even gay!” Sherlock burst out, jumping up to pace. “You’ve said so! Emphatically!”

John began, “Well, I’m not--”

“Then why are you doing this?” Sherlock exploded, stopping to stare at him. “Is it some kind of joke?”

“No!” John almost shouted back, and then he took a deep, deep breath. “Sherlock, no. It’s not a joke.”

“Then why?” Sherlock asked again, his voice deathly quiet.

John sighed and rubbed at his eyebrow, searching his mind for the right words. “Listen. If there’s anything I’ve learned over the past few years--if there’s anything you’ve taught me--it’s that life’s a bit more complicated than it seems on the surface.”

“A bit,” Sherlock mocked.

“Don’t start,” John warned. “You’ll have a hard time convincing anyone you didn’t feel something for Irene Adler.”

“She wasn’t my brother!”

“Mycroft isn’t my brother,” John pointed out, and watched Sherlock’s expression twist again. “Romance, tender feelings, those aren’t your ‘area,’ right? And being attracted to men isn’t mine. And yet, we step outside the lines we create for ourselves.”

“You’re a philosopher now,” Sherlock muttered, falling back onto his chair.

“I put everything I was into the army,” John said, leaning forward and willing Sherlock to understand. “And then I got shot. So I put everything into this, into crime-solving and blogging, and then you died.” He smiled when Sherlock looked at him. “I’m tired of it. Of, of having all my eggs in one basket, or all my life bound up in one thing. I don’t want my horizons, my life, to be so narrow.”

“So you want to date your flatmate’s brother,” Sherlock said, nodding.

John rubbed at his eyebrow again. “That’s incidental.”

“Incidental!” Sherlock snorted.

“It is,” John said, holding out his hands. “Sherlock. It has nothing to do with you. Nothing at all,” he stressed, when Sherlock started to argue. “I’m attracted to Mycroft, and I’m going to pursue him. I would actually really appreciate it if you didn’t try to involve yourself.”

Sherlock nodded once more. “Mycroft’s ex-husband got involved with him before he knew he was a manipulative control freak with voyeuristic tendencies.”

“And a great arse,” John added, bursting into laughter when Sherlock choked. “You deserved that!”

“I’ve done nothing to deserve that,” Sherlock denied hotly.

“Not even--”

“Not even faking my death. Not even--” Sherlock raised his voice, overriding John’s objection-- “Not even putting the skin samples next to the ham.”

“That was horrible,” John said, shaking his head at the memory.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and they were quiet for a long moment. “John. Go and get dressed.”

John looked down at himself. “I am dressed.”

“I’m supposed to be meeting my brother at the Diogenes this morning,” Sherlock said, standing up. “But I find that I am busy, and will have to ask you to go in my stead. Surely you’re not going to try and impress him wearing that,” he added, directing a scathing look at John’s sweatshirt.

***

Mycroft wasn’t in the least surprised when John walked in--probably, John reflected ruefully, because he had arrived on time, something Sherlock rarely did. “John,” he said, indicating the chair with a tilt of his head.

“Mycroft,” John said, just as gravely, and moved to stand beside the chair. Mycroft was, after all, still standing in front of his desk.

“How is Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, turning just slightly to reach for a file.

“Amenable,” John said brightly, and tried not to laugh at the glare that earned. “He obviously sent me here in his place; it’s not a difficult deduction.”

“Forgive me for trying to steer this back to business,” Mycroft said coldly.

“Only if you promise not to do it again.”

Mycroft’s eyes flashed. “Doctor Watson--”

“I thought we were on first name basis, Mr. Holmes?” John said sweetly, taking a step closer.

“If I were to ask you to stop this ridiculousness--”

“I would,” John said, dropping all teasing inflection. “I will, if you tell me to. I meant my apology. I shouldn’t have kissed you, not like that.”

Mycroft’s face was blank, but his eyes were flickering over John, assessing. Gathering data; calculating.

“It should have been slow,” John continued, taking another small step forward. “Not angry, not a power trip. If I had a second chance,” he smiled, Mycroft’s gaze taking that in, “I wouldn’t hold your wrists. I would touch your hand.” He put word to action, standing close enough now to take Mycroft’s hand in his own, in a gentle, loose grip. 

“I would lean close,” he continued, and tugged at Mycroft’s hand, pulling him down just a bit, just enough that he could, in a moment, stretch up and touch his lips to Mycroft’s. “And I would ask...”

This last he murmured, his breath washing over Mycroft’s lips: “May I?”

John was very aware of the barest distance he’d left between them, had steeled himself against moving forward, so it was Mycroft who moved, allowing the briefest, most delicate kiss John had ever participated in before turning away.

“Please bring this file to Sherlock,” he said, picking up the manila envelope and handing it to John, brisk and cold.

“Will do,” John said, taking it and trying not to laugh in his exhilaration.

***


End file.
